Out of Morrowind
by Tim Cummings
Summary: A tale set in Vvardenfell, in the aftermath of the Oblivion crisis. Contains references to events as my Nerevarine, Arvil Bren, played them. I suggest reading Arvil Bren's Journal's first, but it isn't really required.


Romath Telvayn emerged from the temple. He stood blinking in the sunlight. The tears in his eyes may have been a response to the bright sun, but the deep sadness etched on his face suggested otherwise. Slowly he gathered himself, hitched the straps of the pack that held his brother's burial urn, and headed across the courtyard to the gate. The courtyard wall to the left of the gate was older stone, and still bore marks of smoke from the fires. To the right of the gate was new stone, placed since the daedra had been driven from Ald-ruhn.

Passing through the gate Romath entered a city bustling with the efforts to rebuild. Buildings wrapped in nests of scaffolding dotted the plain, along with piles of rubble. Some of the piles were the detritus hauled away from the structures being rebuilt. Other piles marked buildings too badly damaged to be rebuilt. Scavengers picked through those piles, looking for building materials that could be reused. The lost treasures of those who had lived here had long since been dug from the ruins, mostly, but occasionally someone would find a coin, or some trinket...or the dead.

Her bonemold boots brought puffs of dust into the still air as the Redguard picked up her pace. Romath had seen her coming as he turned to the west, but had not stopped. She hated to intrude, but House Redoran needed every warrior. She couldn't just let an able Kinsman like Romath Telvayn walk away without urging him one last time to return. He stopped with a sigh as she drew alongside.

"I can't serve in the guards any more, Neminda," he said.

"I understand. There are other ways to serve the house Kinsman...other places the house can welcome you."

"I know. Maybe someday. Maybe even sooner than it seems right now. I admit the feeling of...belonging...would be a comfort..."

"You've lost so much Romath. Take your time, but don't lose yourself." She reached out and touched his cheek. A surprisingly gentle hand, for all the callus her sword hilt had raised on it.

He touched her hand as she lowered it. "You're a good friend Neminda. It has been an honor to serve you, and fight at your side."

"We both serve the house, and the honor has been mine." She drew three candles from her pouch and handed them to him. "For your brothers. Safe travel, Romath."

Romath nodded, and slipped the candles into a nearly full packet attached to his pack strap. Many had served with his brothers and wanted their spirits to remember them. He wondered who would light candles for his own spirit when the day came. He resumed the slow march to the west, towards his family tomb. Neminda watched him go until the rolling land hid him from view.

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The rocky walls of Abernanit glittered with frost. The bitter coast cave had long been used by smugglers and bandits, who had enjoyed the snug interior as well as the seclusion. Those days were over. It was still secluded, but the frost spells the Shaman used to emphasize his points took a toll. The currents in the swirl of magica that envelops Nirn can cut channels, and frost magic now flowed through the cavern continuously. None of the Nords gathered there minded, or really noticed.

"For the new to rise the old must pass," Olfind Stonefist intoned along with the others. They all knew the lines the Shaman expected to be repeated. Heads bowed as the Shaman continued.

"Brothers and sisters, we are here at the very beginning. None of us will see freedom. But here, now, while the storm is still distant, it falls to us to prepare the way for it. Bring on the storm!"

The gathered Nords raised their heads. "Bring on the storm," they said together, then bowed their heads again.

When the Shaman had finished the gathered Nords rose to their feet. The Shaman approached Olfind Stonefist. "Your time has come," he said, laying a frosty hand on Olfind's shoulder.

"It is my time, and my honor."

The two of them moved into a deeper alcove as the rest of the congregation made their way out into the sunlight.

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The betty netch drifted on a gentle air current, then a brief burst from its vents brought it closer to the herd. Three large males slowly pursued, thrashing the air with their dangling tentacles.

Drulene Falen watched the huge gasbags alertly. Netch normally presented no threat to her guar, but the betty netch was obviously ripe for mating and that would make the bulls far more aggresive than usual. She sidestepped slowly to the barrel outside the door of her house.

As the betty went about the business of enticing the males their displays became more urgent. Gas vented and they settled until their tentacles dragged on the ground, coiling around stones and lifting them, then letting them drop. Drulene tried to guess whether the objective was to impress the betty with the sound the stones made hitting the ground, or the rapid bobbing motion of the great gasbag when the ballast fell free of the grip of the tentacles. Not being a betty netch herself she had no clue, and wasn't particularly impressed with either one. It didn't appear that any one of the three suitors was gaining any big advantage over the competition though.

And the netch continued to drift towards the herd.

"Nothing more impressive in a man than picking up a thrashing guar instead of a stone, eh betty?" Drulene muttered under her breath as she drew a longbow out of the barrel. She pulled the coiled bowstring out of her pouch and quickly strung the weapon, then took an arrow from the barrel. The tip of the arrow was not the typical cross of razor sharp blades or the pointed tip of a practice arrow. A broad metal mushroom graced the end of the shaft. Drulene quickly drew the string to her cheek and let fly. As the bowstring sang she quietly said "Good-bye betty."

The arrow struck the heavy leather top hide of the betty netch's gasbag with a resounding thump, and fell to the ground. The startled netch vented gas rapidly, producing a gaspy bleat of a noise and sending the betty rapidly off to the north. The three males puffed up their bags and floated higher while slowly venting to propel themselves in pursuit.

"Good luck guys," said the guar herder as she gathered her arrow. She gave one of the guar a reassuring pat as she returned to the house. She unstrung her bow and placed it neatly upright in the barrel, along with the arrow. When she turned to look again only the very top of one of the netch was visible over the trees.

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The camp was simple; a bedroll, a small fire, a tripod of steel rod that supported a small pot in a snare of strips of hide. Romath dribbled water over the strips, keeping them wet so they wouldn't burn. After a time he hooked the strips with the point of a dagger, lifted them free of the tripod, and swung the pot onto a flat rock. Boiling water had softened the scrib jerky, swelling it into a meaty slab. Crumbled herbs in the water provided flavor, and an ash yam that had steamed on a small hinged shelf provided more substance. A fine meal, considering it was cooked in the wilderness.

Not an untracked wilderness by any means, Romath mused. The West Gash to the north met the bitter coast to the south in a maze of trails. Romath was camped at the end of one such trail, in front of a carved wooden door that accessed his family's tomb. He was comforted by the presence of his ancestors behind the door. He felt their welcome. Deep inside him there were weary corners where the idea of just sealing himself in the tomb and joining them held more than a passing appeal.

Raising a cup of wine to the clay urn that shared the warmth of the fire he quietly asked "Why me? Why would I be last?"

Romath was the oldest of four brothers. The father of two sons. A devoted husband. His youngest brother's ashes were in the urn. Romath had talked him out of serving in the Redoran house guards after their other two brothers had died at Ghostgate serving with the Nerevarine. Tried to keep him safe, never imagining that he would die in a construction accident when another worker let a bucket of plaster slip from his grasp and roll down the sloping shell of Skar to take him over the side. Romath's wife and young sons were in the tomb with his brothers; killed when daedra fired their house along with most of Ald-ruhn.

The urn had no answers. Romath finished his wine and chose not to refill his cup. He sat and stared at the stars while the fire burned low.

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The hillside was shrouded in darkness. Olfind Stonefist moved in a crouch, feeling ahead of each movement with careful sweeps of his arms. The chill of the night had settled in, but he did not covet the campfire down in the canyon. Bred for the frozen heights of Skyrim he did not need its warmth, and he could ill afford to have its light. At a safe distance he squatted on his heels and settled in to watch the Dunmer at his camp.

It doesn't take much to try the patience of a Nord, but Olfind was a man of faith. As the elf sat staring at the sky, Olfind sat staring at the elf, reminding himself of his mission. The reminders were needed, as the bulging muscle of his arms quietly suggested immediate open combat. They were needed as the thick muscles of his legs began to complain of their cramped position, demanding a quick charge downhill to the fray. The reminders were needed, but they were enough. Eventually the elf turned to his bedroll. Still, Olfind waited.

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Dreams intruded on Romath's sleep. Even asleep he knew they were dreams. He did not suffer dreaming well, and never mistook the dreamworld for reality. The soul sickness, the invading dreams sent from beneath Red Mountain by Dagoth Ur, had been hidden by his people because the temple had taught that all such dreams were madness, not message. Romath knew that the madness had been with the sender of those dreams, not in those who had been plagued by them, but he still adhered to the basic belief that those who claimed prophetic dreams were fooling themselves.

When he found himself walking, boots grinding into gritty ash of a canyon floor, he stopped, even though the dream clearly intended that he go on. Something further up the canyon called to him, demanding to be seen, and he refused. Wind blew through the narrow valley, and he stood resolute as the wind borne ash scattered against his legs. The wind whistled in his ears...

And he threw himself sideways.

The whistling of his dreams blended smoothly into the sound of the massive steel hammer slicing through the air and ended in the crash of steel on furs, striking where a split second before his head had lain on the bedroll. He gave thanks that he was right outside his family crypt so the ancestral ghost answered his plea before it even fully formed; gave thanks to the tribunal, no, maybe the nine, or maybe Azura. In these troubled times he didn't know who to thank, but he let his gratitude be known in a general way as the ghost distracted the furious Nord long enough for him to reach his sword.

"A better way to die, elf. On your feet with a sword in your hand," Olfind growled. "Will you fight with honor, or must I dispatch all your dead ancestors along with you?"

Romath circled, keeping the campfire between himself and the Nord. "Honor? When you reach Sovngarde how do you think you will be received? You who try to kill a sleeping foe, and can't even do that."

"It is important that you die. Too important for my honor to intrude. But I'm glad you awoke. You are awake now, and eventually you will meet my steel." The hammer was huge, and the light from the fire gleamed off the polished square face as Olfind hefted it in both hands. Romath was just as happy that he was not wearing his armor. The bonemold would offer little against such a weapon, and would only slow him down.

He considered his options. If he kept circling the Nord would eventually just leap over the fire to the attack. The stout steel blade in his hands would be able to find the joints in the Nordic steel armor of his foe, but he would have to avoid the hammer. One slip would mean death. He could run. It was very unlikely that the heavily armored Nord would have any chance of catching him. Or he could take the fight to the enemy. The small campfire offered little resistance to a Dunmer. He kept circling, not because it was the best strategy, but because it offered the best chance to get answers. "Why is it important that I die? What have I ever done to you?"

The Nord's face twisted into an ugly snarl. "It isn't what you've done, it's what you will do. What you would do if you weren't about to die, right here and now." He turned slightly and raised his hammer high over his head...and over Romath's brother's burial urn.

Romath sprang into the campfire and out the other side. Right hand gripping the hilt, left palm against the flat of the blade, he deflected the hammer blow, which thudded harmlessly into the ground next to the urn. Casting aside the bent and useless blade he fell with his full weight onto the long handle, tearing the hammer from Olfind's grip. He rolled clear as the heavily armored body crashed down in what was meant to be a deadly blow that would have turned him into a bloody pancake of broken flesh. Before the Nord regained his feet Romath landed a savage kick that hurt his foot, but toppled the enemy away from his hammer.

The fight became a haze of buffeting blows from steel gauntlets, quick grapples and falls. The blows took a toll on him, but every time they went to the ground Romath was up first. Olfind struggled to rise in the heavy armor, often taking three or four attempts as the Dunmer darted in to topple him anew before he could set himself. Eventually the Dunmer gloated, "Getting tired Nord?" and Olfind knew that he was. Shortly after, as he again struggled to rise from the dust, most of his weight and his armor's weight over his left leg, the Dunmer landed a sweeping kick to the outside of his knee. His leg folded, in a way that had never been intended, and despite his courage he screamed as he fell. A scream he feared would disgracefully announce his arrival in Sovngarde.

Romath gathered the fallen hammer. "I could pound the rest of your joints to jelly, one by one. I could roll you and that steel oven you are wearing into the fire and watch your life slowly bake away. Or I can dispatch you to the afterlife with one clean blow to crush your skull, as you offered me. What is it that you think I will do? Why is it important to you that I die?"

Olfind gathered himself and gritted his teeth against the pain he knew was coming. "Rot in Oblivion!" he cried, and threw himself head first into the fire.

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The door creaked open onto a landing. Torches flared to life lighting the stairs down to his right, Romath's ancestors lighting his path. A Dunmer tomb is never dark if you belong there. He carried the urn carefully to the bottom of the stairs and set it down in front of the shrine to Veloth. The spirits murmured comfortably as he asked for Veloth's blessing for himself, and for the spirit of his brother.

He stood, and picked up the urn once more to carry it into the family chapel. His memory took him back years, to a happy time. Oddly happy. The family tomb had been desecrated; certainly an outrage. But what he remembered was he and his three brothers, and his wife. Cleaning. Bringing in new benches. A lectern for a book of songs blessed by the temple; a book which he laid his hand on as he passed. The contented ancestors murmuring then much as they were now. But no, they weren't comfortable now. There was a note of urgency, and a note of sadness. He set the urn down on the edge of the ash pit, and knelt.

Rising from the pit a cloud of particles formed, the finest ash, floating on the still air. Romath stared, red eyes unblinking, adding his own living will to that of all his ancestors. His was strong, theirs numerous beyond counting. Bent together their combined strength was sufficient. The cloud of particles thickened and took shape. His brother. Being the most recently dead his will was strongest, making him the easiest channel the spirits could take. "Romath," the figure said, though it was still little more than a wisp.

"My brother," Romath whispered back.

"All your brothers, and more."

Romath felt tears on his cheeks.

"We are all here, and we feel your longing to join us, but you cannot...now, or ever."

"Why?" Romath's voice broke on the single word, unable to carry the anguish he felt.

"You must answer the call. This tomb is not safe. No tomb is safe here. For our family's spirits to continue they must continue in you. You must start anew, in a new place...in a new tomb. In a tomb that your family will maintain, where we will be welcome."

"You are my family."

"You must have a new family." The wisp changed subtly and took on the image of his wife. "You must have a new wife, and her unborn son will be as your own. In his strength we will carry on. You must do this husband, with my blessing, and all our love." The ashes lost their form, and settled slowly into the pit, mingling with Romath's tears.

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The Shaman looked up from the steel bowl. Gerd Troll-kin saw nothing in the bowl but what seemed to be swirling snow, but the Shaman apparently saw much more. "Olfind has failed," the old man said with a sigh. "You must go. Take Frilk, and Ulf Sleet-fall. Your time has come."

"It is my time," Gerd repeated solemnly. He ducked his head and turned away.

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The bent sword got rolled up in his bedroll, along with the rest of his gear. Romath wasn't comfortable without it but it wouldn't be good for anything until he got back to the forge in Ald-ruhn. The corpse of the Nord starting to bloat in the sun was a constant reminder that for some reason someone wanted him dead. He settled his pack, then tilted the great steel hammer over his shoulder. It wasn't a weapon he had much practice with, but was more intimidating than the small dagger tucked in his belt.

A forge. He couldn't remember if there was a forge in Gnaar Mok. The small port was closer than Ald-ruhn though, and maybe someone would remember a Nord in steel armor passing through. He started up the hillside to the west on a little used path that would bring him to the main trail that led south to Gnaar Mok; a family shortcut remembered from his youth.

He was approaching the main trail when he heard the voices; Nord voices. He froze, then slipped into a shallow depression in a tree trunk that would keep him out of sight from the trail. The voices were approaching from the south, rapidly. He started making out some of what they were saying, first recognizing that the way they said 'the elf' was much the same way as his assailant had said it. He imagined their faces twisting into the same sneer as the word passed their lips. He concentrated on picking out voices; two...no three...at least.

They passed on the trail and he made out one of them saying "...catch him at the tomb otherwise we'll have to catch up before he gets to Ald-ruhn. Don't want him reaching the guards. He'll be reporting Olfind for..." Romath let his breath out slowly. No doubt about it they were talking about him. He tucked away the name, Olfind, adding it to his intended questions at the port of Gnaar Mok, but changed his mind about going there immediately. This new group was obviously coming from Gnaar Mok, and there was no guessing how many more would be there.

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The trail curved to the east and Gerd Troll-kin hushed his companions with a gesture. "The trail from the tomb branches off to the south and it's not much further. Frilk, you slip down there and see if he's left yet. Stay out of sight and if you see him on the trail get behind him. We'll jump him at the fork."

Frilk checked his armor over quickly. It had no shiny buckles, nothing loose that could snag and snap a twig. "Aye," he said simply as he slid into the shadow of the underbrush. The others saw nothing of him but the occasional flash of fur that might have been him, or may as easily have been a small animal. They took positions in the brush on either side of the trail to the tomb and waited.

Romath waited also. He had taken a vantage point slightly uphill from the main trail and quite far to the west, but he was close enough to see what was happening. When the two Nords stepped out onto the trail junction looking to the south he knew what they were looking at.

They watched as Frilk sauntered up the trail. His pack bulged with the weight of Olfind's armor. "The elf's gone," he said when he got close. "Olfind's dead. Messy. Hair's all burnt off. Elf took that big hammer he always lugged around, but left his armor behind."

"Not a greedy scavenger I guess," Ulf Sleet-fall grunted. He drew his brows down in a frown.

"Guess not," Frilk answered, an innocent grin spreading across his face. "Look, they aren't going to just give us mead when we get to Ald-ruhn. We'll need something to barter with."

Gerd cuffed Frilk on the ear, but not very hard. "He has a point," he said to Ulf.

"Guess so," Ulf replied. "Not like Olfind's gonna be needing it in Sovngarde anyway."

They set off to the east, moving fast. Romath turned thoughtfully to the north, and started to climb.

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The guar were scattered across their field, munching contentedly. Drulene was resting in her hut, with the front door open so she could listen for any disturbance that might disrupt their afternoon feeding. The change was subtle, not a concerned bleating from the guar, just a change in the rhythm of great grinding jaws as they shifted positions, but she recognized it and got up to check on them. Probably just someone passing on the roa...the man...mer...was right at the door and startled her. Her hand instinctively went to the slight swelling of her belly.

"My apologies, sera," Romath said, extending both hands palm out towards her in the universal sign of meaning no harm. "I saw the door open and perhaps came up more quietly than I should have..." He had actually crept up to the door, wondering if the hut would be full of Nord marauders, and was surprised she had heard him coming at all.

Drulene's hand remained protectively on her belly and she noticed that Romath was staring at it intently. "You came up very quietly indeed, for the guar to not announce you. Tell me why." With one hand offering such an inexplicable distraction Drulene was confident her other hand could be filled with a dagger before the intruder could react, if it came to that.

"Even more apologies," Romath said. "There are some Nords about. Nords who for some reason want to kill me. My family tomb is right over the hills...he waved vaguely to the south...and I knew your farm was here. I'm barely armed and unarmored, and three of them hold the road to Ald-ruhn."

Drulene relaxed. "A Telvayn. My turn to apologize, sera, for my lack of hospitality. I do recognize you, now. We met once in Ald-ruhn. Why is a guardsman of the house out and about without arms and armor?" She pulled a chair from the table and moved to a cushioned bench. "Please, sit, and tell your tale. The guar will inform us if any Nords approach."

"I did not hear them bleat..."

"Which is how I knew how stealthily you approached."

"But you knew I was coming anyway."

She laughed, and he enjoyed her laugh. "My guar speak to me in many ways..."

"Romath."

"Romath. Drulene. Drulene Falen."

"Pleased to meet you...again, Drulene."

She smiled, and Romath enjoyed her smile. He was feeling something...off...about enjoying it though...a pressure from outside. There was a barely audible murmur in the room, and Drulene cocked her head. "The spirits of your ancestors are strong. We are quite a distance from their tomb."

Having ancestral spirits dragging about with you isn't held in the highest regard in Dunmer society, especially as an uninvited guest in someone's home. Romath felt his cheeks darken. "Um...they may have been disturbed by the Nords...er..." He could not continue speaking, and knew his cheeks had gone from flushed to pale. He couldn't very well tell her that he had clearly heard the spirit of his lost wife say 'yes, this is the one' in his ear.

"Disturbed by the Nords?" Drulene asked with concern. "Have they been in the tomb? Have you been in a fight?"

Romath was almost completely at a loss as to how to keep this situation from getting very strange and showing him to be out of his mind. "Not in the tomb, but right outside. Just one, and I had to kill him."

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. A few bruises. My sword bent or I'd have been in better shape to fight the rest..."

"The three on the road? What is it with men that they never consider the stupidity of ignoring bad odds?" Her hand again rested on her belly, in unconscious hope that the son there would take heed. Now her cheeks took on a bit of color. "Oh. Sorry. Being pregnant has made me a little...short-tempered...and my tongue unpredictable..."

"I understand. My wife..." Both pregnancies had been hard, and hard on Romath in turn.

"You have children?" She saw the darkness fall over his face. A darkness all too familiar in these times. She wished mightily that she could take that question from where it hung in the air and banish it somehow.

"Two sons," he said quietly. "They are in the tomb, along with my wife." He didn't mention that his wife's spirit had agreed with Drulene, muttering 'three to one _would_ be stupid' in a voice only he could hear. Another, older voice had added 'and you have things to do.'

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House Redoran was rebuilding its seat at Ald-ruhn, and the small port at Gnaar Mok is the closest port. The road passing Drulene's hut provided the connection for supplies from the mainland, so it didn't take long to find a traveler willing to bear a message.

Neminda noted the unbroken seal on the end of the bonemold tube and thanked the towering Orc for delivering it. She handed over a small pouch and smiled. "House Redoran welcomes you to our capital," she said. "You have come looking for work?"

"Yes. Words spread. Strong backs are needed. Gro-Ba-Gnarsh comes."

"Excellent. The foremen of the work crews gather here at dawn to assign new laborers. We have little to offer for lodgings, but you should be able to find space in the tent camp near the east wall."

"Not harsh here as home. An Orc can sleep in the open." Neminda was pretty sure the lips curling back from the tusks was supposed to be a smile and overcame the urge to draw her sword. "I will start work tomorrow then." The Orc hefted the small pouch. "There is food and drink in this tent camp?"

With the messenger on his way Neminda cracked the seal and drew the paper out of the tube. She had not really expected to hear from Romath Telvayn so soon. She had only been hopeful that she would hear from him ever. In his clear hand she read the concise details of his encounter with the Nords. He did not speculate on why they were targeting him or ask for anything beyond what any landless member of the house could expect. She would have the guards provide him safe passage to the city so he could arm himself for honorable combat. She tapped the tube against her leg as she considered, then went to her desk.

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He-juleed entered Neminda's office with a hop. The Argonian had come to Vvardenfell as a slave. When the houses of Vvardenfell had ended slavery under the short rule of the Hortator the Redorans had been surprised by many of the beast folk choosing to stay and seek work in their territory rather than returning home. In truth many of them lived no better than they had as slaves. Money was tight, and few were paid more than enough to meet their most basic needs. In many cases the lack of hard currency meant their 'wages' came in the form of food and living quarters, an arrangement barely distinguishable from what had existed before. But they were free, which put a stop to the gross abuses that, although rare, had indeed happened under slavery.

Since those abuses had been more common in Hlaalu and Telvani territory the Redorans had gotten an influx of inexpensive labor. And gained some talented citizens like He-juleed in the bargain.

"You have summoned usss?" He-juleed said, flaring his neck ruff respectfully.

"Yes. Thank you for coming. The house needs information."

"Information that is known in the territory of another house I assssume? We would be honored to serve, so long as no harm is done."

"I don't expect there would be any. If it turns out there would be simply return. I will be equally grateful either way.

"What isss it you ssseek to know?"

"There is a group of Nords operating in house territory. I need to know their motives, their number, and where they are based. Their base seems to be near Gnaar Mok."

"You do not wish to asssk the Hlaalu. We will find them." He-juleed flared again, and turned away.

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Three bedrolls lay on the sandy slope. Two were still rolled tight, but Gerd Troll-kin curled in his. He was trying to catch a nap, and failing. He had assigned the midwatch to himself, knowing it would be difficult to stay alert for exactly this reason. The sleep he would later regret not having was of no interest to his body now. Ulf was on watch, sitting on a rock he had dragged up the slope. It gave him a vantage to survey a fair stretch of the trail, but he could easily duck out of sight behind the ridge. He had seen no sign of the Dunmer.

Frilk slipped into their meager camp, and Gerd crawled out of his furs with a sigh. "May as well have slept," Frilk advised. "I've got nothing urgent to report. Doesn't seem to be any of the activity that a guy saying 'hey some Nord tried to kill me' would have stirred up, and even though there aren't many beggars there's enough. They haven't seen our guy for days. He's not back yet."

"I couldn't sleep anyway, and I know you Frilk. An ale or two would help, and I'm sure Olfind's armor fetched enough to buy a few."

Frilk passed over a bottle. "Ald-ruhn's no port town. Anything good costs a fortune, so no ales. This is some local swill, but it'll do a job."

With a grimace Gerd took a long pull on the bottle and handed it back. "Go easy," he said. "You're my relief and I don't want to have to kick your arse to get you out of your furs."

"Same goes for you," came Ulf's voice from up the slope, "and I didn't take the first watch so you two could drink all that before I had a chance."

"Once you taste it you might wish we had," grated Frilk. "We should have a care though. The barkeep said this stuff has quite a kick, and it wouldn't do for us to be too drunk when our elf comes along. Olfind was no milk drinker and the elf killed him. He can't be taken lightly even with three of us."

"Agreed," Gerd said. He laid back down with the alcohol starting to unwind his muscles. "Save most of that then. We'll be wanting to celebrate." He curled on his side and shut his eyes.

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The small company of five guards came to a halt at a raised hand from their captain. Most of them knew the Argonian who had stepped from the brush onto the trail in front of them. Varvur said "Hold here." as he lowered his hand. The son of the Archmaster of the Redorans had humbly worked his way through the ranks, burning away all the softness of a nobleman's son. He stepped forward and greeted the agent. "Good to see you He-juleed."

"Well met Captain Sarethi," the Argonian replied. "You are going to meet Romath Telvayn?"

Varvur smiled, but replied "Whether we are or we aren't our mission wouldn't be common knowledge."

"Our misssion would not be common knowledge either, but perhapsss we have a misssion in common. At leassst in part. Three Nords camp just over the rise south of the road in the passss ahead. They watch the road. Watching for Romath Telvayn. Have a care when you return, should you happen to be in hissss company."

Varvur nodded. "Thank you." He motioned for his men to resume the march. "We will inform Telvayn. Should we happen to see him, of course."

"Of coursssse." The dry hiss of Argonian laughter sounded low. "I will keep an eye on these Nordsss, in case they move."

"Once we are through the pass I'll leave a couple of my mer to set up a camp. I'd like to be kept informed of their whereabouts."

"That isss a good fit with my own task." With that the Argonian disappeared back into the brush.

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"By the nine," Frilk said softly, "come up and look at this." The watches had passed and they were bored. Pretty much anything going by on the road was worth seeing. Gerd and Ulf climbed up the slope silently and peered down the road.

"Same guards that went by yesterday?" suggested Ulf.

"Could be. Probably is," Gerd agreed. "The elf with them is no prisoner, and that's Olfind's hammer on his back I'll warrant. They're an escort. Went out to get him. That's our guy."

"Six Redoran guards. Spears, longswords, bows." Gerd was thinking furiously. "Okay. We're lighter and faster. Ulf, you and me charge them. Down the hill when they are most vulnerable. Frilk, out of sight over there." He motioned to a rocky outcrop some distance away. "Different angle. If we have their attention you should have time. Put an arrow in the target's head." He looked at Ulf. "When the target falls we take to our heels. Split up and make our way back to Gnaar Mok if we can. It is our time."

"It is our time," the others echoed softly as they moved into position.

Their plan failed before it even started. Varvur Sarethi's voice echoed up the ridge as his men drew bows and formed a protective armored wall around their charge. "We know the three of you are up there," he called. "You may be thinking of an ambush. We neither know nor care why you would be thinking such, but will put an arrow in any face that shows as we pass." With that the company warily resumed its march.

Five Redoran archers, all watching the ridgeline alertly; to go over the top would be suicide, and wouldn't accomplish their mission. "Stand down," Gerd choked out angrily and slid down the slope. "How did they know we were here?"

Romath Telvayn's voice came over the hill. "Meet me in Ald-ruhn. I will face you all one at a time in fair combat. To the death if that's your preference."

Gerd kicked his bedroll in frustrated rage. "I will have your head!" he shouted back. Ulf drew breath to shout as well, but Gerd stopped him. "No. You'll be my second. If the elf bests me you learn everything you can from the fight and only challenge him if you see a weakness that I missed and you're sure you can beat him. Frilk, you head back now. I don't know how they knew we were waiting here. Maybe the Shaman will be able to figure it out, but he needs to be told."

"Right." Frilk hoisted his bedroll and set off. After a few steps he stopped and pulled a small purse from inside his belt. He tossed it to Gerd. "Have a drink on me."

Gerd caught the pouch, knowing it contained nothing more than a fair share from the sale of Olfind's armor, and probably less. He still thanked the departing rogue's back.

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There was a buzz about Ald-ruhn. Construction proceeded at the usual pace, the extra spring in the worker's steps offsetting the stoppages for brief excited conversations. When the sun sank low in the west foremen called their crews to a halt early. People hurried to their dinners. Many splurged on dining in the taverns; a boon for tavern keepers as well as their suppliers.

One hour after sunset the crowds were settled into place. They surrounded the lower plaza in front of the great shell of Skar, and spread onto surrounding rooftops. As many as could get a clear view had one. Odds makers squeezed their way through the crowds, looking for one more bet.

The combatants entered the plaza quietly. Both had agreed to standard Redoran dueling rules, and an official appointed by the council verified that they each wore a magica draining garment under their armor. The Nord, draped in furs, drew a hiss from the crowd. Ramoth, a native son and veteran of the town guard who had saved many lives when the city was destroyed during the Oblivion crisis, was a clear favorite. He stepped forward in his bonemold armor, the family crest emblazoned on the shield. Though it was not broken in nearly as well as his guard armor had been, it was comfortable enough and he could move well. The lightly armored Nord would still have an advantage there though.

With a last whispered word to his man, Ulf withdrew to the edge of the combat area. Neminda, acting as second for Romath, merely patted him on the arm as she did the same. The temple healer, tasked with keeping the victor alive afterwards if they should be gravely wounded, raised his hands high and bowed his head. The crowd fell silent. When the blessing was completed the healer also withdrew from the combat area. Romath raised his longsword in salute to his foe, then shut the visor of his helmet. Gerd clashed his waraxe against his shield and nodded a reply. The two men approached the center of the makeshift arena; knees flexed, shields raised, weapons at the ready. A deathly silence fell over the city, waiting to be broken by the first strike of arms.

When that first clash rang out, Gerd's axe crashing harmlessly off Romath's shield, the crowd erupted and the silence was banished. From then on every movement was met by roars, or gasps, shouts of encouragement or warning. The combatants were awash in a sea of noise that fell away from them unheard. They spared attention only for each other.

The Nordic axe in Gerd's capable hand was heavy, and sharp. A clean strike would cleave bonemold. If his brawny arm could put enough force behind it to continue through and bite deep into Dunmer flesh one blow could kill, or at the very least disable. But even though he could not match the mobility and swift rushes of his foe, Romath shifted enough to make any blow that landed a glancing strike that did not allow the edge to bite. He did not block with his shield, he deflected, pushing the strokes aside without having the axe chop away the tool of his defense.

Thick fur prevented minor touches from slicing his skin, but Gerd had to be wary of Romath's blade. A thrust would drive it through the fur as easily as the flesh underneath, but through long practice and the history of his people Gerd knew that many a thrusting blade could be tangled in the loose pieces that flapped freely from the seams. His darting attacks were designed to draw such a thrust so that a quick twist of his body would wrench the entangled blade out of his enemy's hand. His heavy muscles flashed his thick iron shield in front of any thrust that was too directly on target.

The tension in the crowd built with every flurry of steel. When Romath's blade drove through hide but not flesh they gasped, then when it sliced free of the entanglement and left a ragged strip dangling from the Nord's midsection they shouted approval. When Gerd's axe bit into the bonemold protecting Romath's thigh, shaving into the hard resin and then snapping off a wedge that left only a paper's thickness from the flesh beneath they cried out warnings.

The crowd was tense. Some were too far away to see clearly. Some weren't experienced in combat. Many were so invested in the outcome that they couldn't help themselves. Some considered Romath a friend. Others were naturally inclined to support their kinsman, however distant. Burly Nords come to Vvardenfell for work tried to shout down the native Dunmer. Some were literally invested, staking sums they could ill afford to lose with the odds makers. Almost all of this tension in the crowd started well behind those who stood closest to the ring.

The tension was lacking there at the front, because from the edge of the arena the eventual outcome was plain to see. Gerd's furious attacks were being turned aside with practiced skill, and while it was possible for fate to take a side and bring the axe home in a lucky blow it was unlikely from the start and grew less likely with each exchange. Nordic heritage and lighter armor added to Gerd's stamina, but everyone could see that Romath was countering with bare twitches that conserved his energy.

After about ten minutes Romath stepped back. Gerd could rush again, but instead he cautiously lowered his heavy shield, opting to catch a quick breather if that was what his opponent was taking. Romath flipped up his visor, revealing only the lightest sweat on his face. The Nord had already swiped the fur on his forearm across his own face like a mop.

"I did not want a fight to the death," Romath said. "I will accept your yield at any time, if you will explain who sent you to kill me and as much as you know of why." Some in the crowd groaned at this offer of mercy, and Ulf tensed. He doubted that Gerd would accept such an offer, but was certain that their mission in some way violated the local laws, and any confession from Gerd would include him as well. Gerd opened his mouth, but only to pant, not reply. He wanted to regain as much strength as he could from this pause. Romath sighed, and tried one more time. "I assume your best fighter came first. He attacked me while I slept, unarmed and unarmored...and I killed him. By now you have to know I am going to kill you as well. We could fight to first blood."

Gerd straightened to his full height. "I honor your offer, but I am here to kill...or die. It is my time." He waited while Romath sealed his visor, then returned to the fight. It did not last much longer. Ulf Sleet-fall slipped away through the crowd when Gerd's body slid off the length of the sword and fell to the ground. He had seen no weakness in the elf and was thankful Gerd had ordered him to report to the Shaman rather than fight and inevitably die.

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The routine wasn't what Romath had expected to settle into, it just happened. He needed a place to stay, and the guard barracks were certainly better than the tent city of the labor crews. His training with the younger guards was considered 'helping out' rather than a duty assignment, so he wasn't technically back in the guards, but it sure didn't look a lot different. He had wanted to leave Ald-ruhn; just get away from the memories and let things sort out in his mind, but this business with the Nords had thrown him a curve. Neminda reminded him whenever she saw him that setting off into the wilderness with no idea why the Nords were after him, and no idea which Nords were involved, made no sense at all. So he trained, and he waited.

A week had passed, and most of a second, when a council page showed up at the practice field to summon him to Neminda's office. He entered Skar, and was pleased to note that it was almost like old times. Under Skar had of course been a high priority in the rebuilding effort, since the city's elite lived here, but it served as a symbol of pride even for people who seldom had any real reason to even visit. He crossed the rope and plank bridge to the central pillar with its surrounding platform, then another bridge to the council chambers. The guards knew him, so he didn't have to stop and identify himself, and he knew the way to Neminda's office so he didn't have to ask. He passed them with a friendly nod and proceeded down the hallway.

The door stood open, so he stepped in as he rapped on the frame. Neminda stood up from behind her desk and said "Come in Romath!" Her smile froze as she said "Saints! You look terr..um...tired."

"Well, thanks for not saying terrible," Romath replied, forcing a chuckle.

"Really Romath, are you sleeping at all?"

"Some." He shifted uneasily.

"Listen," Neminda said, "I've spent my whole life among Dunmer. I know that you have a hard time talking about dreams and trouble sleeping and all that. But back in the crisis we all saw that 'soul sickness' didn't mean someone was weak, or crazy. It was just that Dagoth Ur really was invading people's dreams. If something is keeping you awake you should check it out with someone who might understand it."

"That's easy for you to say Neminda. You're a Redguard, even if you were raised among Dunmer..."

"Easy to say or not, you look like Oblivion. You need to do something, because whatever you're going through is out of the ordinary, and with some crazy Nord cult after you..."

At that point they both heard the footsteps in the hall. Obviously a courtesy since He-juleed was perfectly capable of approaching silently. Ramoth said "Okay, I'll work on it," as Neminda opened the door and they turned their attention to the Argonian.

They stepped away, giving him room to pace. Argonians ae not made for standing still on two legs. He-juleed hissed his appreciation and began his report. They listened, mostly without interruption.

The agent explained that there was a growing nationalist movement among the Nords of Skyrim, and it was reflected among the Nords in Gnaar Mok. Dockworkers, crews of Nord ships; support was very limited, but few didn't have something of an opinion on 'the coming of the storm'. With Oblivion sealed forever Cyrodiil had lost a key component of their influence, so this made sense enough. But it seemed pretty clear that no one expected this 'storm' any time soon. Maybe in the long lives of elves, but even the most fervent nationalists didn't anticipate actually seeing it themselves.

"So, what does this have to do with me?"

"There isss a sshaman, who hasss an artifact and claims to sssee the 'sstorm'. Like any prophet he hasss hiss fanaticsss. He hasss foretold that the independence of Sskyrim will be thwarted by a Dunmer."

"No surprise there," Neminda said. "Nords and Dunmer have been blaming each other for everything since the beginning of time."

"So this Dunmer..." Ramoth prompted.

"The Ssshaman sssayss the Dunmer is a ssson of the Telvayn. You are the lassst Telvayn, yesss? Obviously, hisss misssion isss to have you killed."

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Neminda had paid He-juleed for his services, and sat behind her desk after the Argonian left, drumming her fingers on the desktop.

"I should pay you back..."

"Nonsense. Investigating crazy cults is my job. Crazy cults cause trouble. Crazy cults targeting members of the house cause me trouble."

"Not near as much as they cause for me."

"There's that. Speaking of your troubles, this crazy cult wouldn't be connected to your trouble sleeping, would it?"

"Well, considering it started the same night I was attacked..."

"Okay, that's a yes."

"I suppose it is."

"So. Dreams?"

"A dream."

"Same one, over and over?"

"Yeah."

"This is easy for me to say, but sounds like someone is trying to tell you something. Gods, saints, daedra, ancestors, maybe this shaman... Any clue?"

Romath was clearly uncomfortable, but it was easier to talk about to the Redguard, especially since she was a friend. She also wasn't shy when there was something that might be a threat to the house, and Romath knew she wasn't going to just let it go.

"It's a place. I'm sure I'm supposed to go there, but I have no idea where it is."

Neminda cursed. "You can't wander the world looking for it. Especially when any Nord you run across might be trying to kill you. There must be some clue...is it a building of some ki..."

"No. It's a canyon. Strong wind. Lots of sand blowing. Twisted spires."

"I've been there. Or a dozen places just like it."

"That's the problem."

"I want you to go to the temple and speak to Methal Seran."

"But..."

"I know it's not comfortable, but I promise Methal is more open minded than you think. If we can work out who is trying to get you to go...wherever...maybe we can get a better idea where it is. Methal obviously knows about the saints and the Tribunal, but he's also been studying the good daedra. I think he's the best shot."

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Romath was far from eager, but he was deathly tired. He also thought that whatever this calling was, he didn't have anything to do really other than answer it. So he went to the temple. Methal Seran wasn't available, but he could wait. He opted for prayer. After what seemed a short while, with no particular response from any of the saints, he was summoned to an austere cubicle to speak with the priest.

After explaining his situation hesitantly Romath answered the priest's probing questions. Yes, the wind always blew down the canyon in his face. No, there was no particularly unique rock formations. No, in fact he couldn't say for certain the rock formations were even the same from one dream to another. The only constants were the canyon, and the wind.

"So, what if I said there is a place called 'valley of the wind'?" the priest asked.

"I would say that doesn't surprise me, but I can't think why I would be summoned there."

"I think I can," said the priest. "And I would guess that it is Azura who calls to you. I know someone else who wants to go there. I suspect your job is to get her there safely, since she came to me about this not two hours ago and I told her that for her to go into the wilderness alone would be foolish." The priest rose gracefully to his feet. "She is in the dormitory. I will go to her and explain that you are here and that I believe you should travel together."

Exhaustion was slowing his wits. The priest was out of the room quicker than Romath recognized what he was suggesting, which Romath thought was a very bad idea. When Methal Seran came back moments later Romath started to explain.

"No one should be traveling with me. It won't be safer. I might be able to offer protection in the wilderness, but some Nord cult has decided I'm a target. If they attack again I don't want someone else hurt that isn't even involved."

He was so intent on convincing the him that Romath hadn't noticed that the priest had not returned alone. Until a soft voice from the doorway said, "I think I am already involved somehow." He turned, and was surprised to see Drulene Falen.

"You?" he stumbled for words. "You are the one going to the valley of the wind? Why?"

She rested her hand on her belly, a gesture he was becoming familiar with. "The baby is insisting that I speak with his father," she said. "It started right after your visit. Right after your encounter with the Nord. You said there is some sort of cult?"

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It took a few days to prepare for the trip, which Romath now thought of as 'the pilgrimage'. He was doubtful to begin with, but when the insistent dreams stopped as soon as the preparations began he conceded that whatever power was drawing him was satisfied that he was on the right course. He didn't appreciate being a pawn in some game of the gods, or daedra, but since there was nothing to be done about it he just shrugged whenever the thought crossed his mind.

Drulene installed another herder, a friend who had lost his own farm in the Oblivion crisis, to take care of her guar. She returned with a pack animal laden with netch leather. When they departed she looked like nothing but a trader headed north to trade with the tribes, and being accompanied by an armored guard with a visored helm was hardly notable. Even though he was still concerned Romath had to admit this was a perfect way for him to get out of the city. There were too many Nords among the labor crews to think that none of them were keeping watch on him, but an anonymous guard with a trader should pass unnoticed. It would be days before they figured out that he was not in the barracks.

By then he and Drulene were far from Ald-ruhn, and into the trackless wilderness of northern Vvardenfell. They had settled quickly into a travel routine. Rising early, loading the guar, hiking until the hottest part of the day, then stopping for a light meal and rest. They would travel again once the sun had begun to descend, then camp at dusk. It was not the hard march Romath was accustommed to, but it accomodated Drulene's pregnancy, which though only slightly noticable did get a bit more obvious every day.

They talked in their camps, and chatted along the trail at times. They became friends. Romath even found himself wondering about the strange conversation with the spirit of his wife. And found himself watching Drulene with more than concern for her safety on his mind. Eventually it was obvious to Drulene that he was avoiding the subject of her condition. They were breaking camp, the guar loaded up and Romath making sure their fire was cold, when she said "He seems to like you."

Romath scanned the area. "Who?"

"My son."

"Ah."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "Don't. You can't help being curious. No offense in that. It irks me a little that you are pretending you aren't."

He smiled and rubbed his arm, and said "Hmmmm." She glared at him, and he added "Okay, I am curious. Let's talk about it at lunch."

When they had settled in a small hollow, with the guar cropping trama vines and their own lunch of scrib meat and ash yams sizzling in a pan, he said "Alright then, out with it."

"Out with it? That's a unique approach to asking questions. Did you learn that in the guards?"

He shifted in his crouch, and prodded the food in the pan with a cooking stick. "I don't know what to ask," he said. "When I met you at your hut there didn't seem to be a man in your life, but obviously there had been. You didn't seem to be missing anyone, and you don't seem eager to see him now. But we are going to see him. He should be glad you didn't travel alone, but some men aren't always sensible."

She interrupted him with a low chuckle. "You are concerned that he might be jealous about me having a body guard?"

"Like I said, men aren't always sensible about some things. He might see more than a bodygu..." She leaned towards him suddenly and kissed him full on the lips.

"He'd be right if he does. I don't think of you as just a bodyguard. But you don't have to worry. He'll be happy for me. He never could really love me himself, much as he wanted to. I accepted that to have his company...for as long as I could." Romath was trying to recover from the effects of the kiss, which had apparently shut off his brain, and muddle through what she was saying at the same time. It did register that she thought that he loved her, and a second later he realized that she was right. That threw him even further off and he missed whatever she was saying at that point. He did understand when she said "You're burning the yams."

They ate quietly. It seemed obvious to both of them that they should skip the afternoon's travel. They unloaded the guar, who made clear that he too would enjoy the respite, and made their camp.

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Romath spent the remaining days of the journey to the valley of the wind trying to prepare himself, but it was beyond him. He had lived a satisfying, but ordinary life. He had no other expectations. As the door opened before him in the twilight he still couldn't really accept that he had been called to a truly legendary place. He took Drulene's hand and they pushed through the door, into the cavern of the incarnates.

They walked side by side down the wide tunnel into the chamber. The huge statue of Azura smiled down on them. In great stone hands it held the glowing ring, Moon and Star. In front of it sat freshly mummified remains. From those remains a spirit rose, then turned to face them.

"Hortator," Romath said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head in respect.

Drulene just stood looking at the spirit, and said "Hello Arvil. I hope your spirit is comfortable." She looked pointedly around the cave.

"I am here to speak for Azura. Most often I trod warm spirit sands and I am...happy, though I have regrets. You..."

Drulene pulled Romath to his feet with a proprietary grip on his arm. She did not let go. "Do not count me among them Arvil. I am...well."

The spirit smiled, and warmth flooded the cave. "Romath Trevayn. I am glad to see you. Azura, and Drulene, have chosen well. But I have been a pawn of the gods, and would not force that upon anyone. So Azura will only task you to protect my son if you are willing."

Romath's red eyes were nearly bulging from his head. "I am...honored...but I am just a simple mer..."

"And I was just a simple man Romath. In the eyes of the gods that is no disqualifier."

"There is a...cult...pursuing me. I do not wish to endanger anyone."

"They will stop pursuing you if you say no. They are already a danger to Drulene and the child, even though they have not located her yet. Eventually they will realize it isn't you they want either way."

"Then I will protect your son. I accept and I am honored." His arm slipped around Drulene's shoulders. "And I am grateful."

The spirit began to thin. "My time is short," it said. It waved a spectral hand towards a chest nestled against the wall of the cave. "My books are there, including one to be given to my son when he is of age. He is doomed to a life of destiny. Raise him well. But first you must leave this place. You, and he, will not be safe on Vvardenfell."

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_Hope you are enjoying the story so far. I expect three parts total, and promise it will not take as long to complete as Arvil Bren's story. Reviews always appreciated._


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